


A Satellite

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Dominance, Exhibitionism, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Rimming, Submission, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:03:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the interest of assuring that his son performs adequately, Thranduil instructs Legolas through his first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legolas

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for nicevenn’s “Legolas is at the age where Elves start to become curious about sex. Thranduil forbids him to bed an elleth before marriage, due to the risk of siring bastards, but gives him free reign with the male sex. However, it will not do to have his inexperienced son giving any subpar performances. So, Thranduil recruits a trusted guard or servant to be their guinea pig as he talks Legolas through the act. + Legolas is proving not to be a particularly fast learner, so Thranduil periodically corrects his son by doing to him what he's doing to the other. "No, no, no, you're doing this… What you want to be doing, is this." ++ The "victim" has the final say on whether or not Legolas has passed his practicum. He lies and says no, so that they can do it again another time. +++ Thranduil is perplexed by why his son can't learn to please his lover. Eventually he recruits someone else, and the process repeats. Finally, Thranduil submits to Legolas himself, to see WTF is up, and realizes the others were lying because it's damn good” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25947650#t25947650).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but the anticipation has him nearly gliding all the same. He tries to stay calm, stoic, _frown_ : like his father. He comes silently into the chambers and lets the grand doors shut behind him. He’s been here before. He’s been everywhere in these halls. But he was younger, then, and sneaking around pillars for glimpses of forbidden things, and now the candles here are lit for _him_.

The room is smaller than he remembers. The floor is stone, but the rest is wood, reaching up to twist together in many open branches, the stars slipping through. There’s a dresser and a lounge and a large, open bed with an elaborate headboard and white-green linens, embroidered and rolled back. The flickering candlelight makes it looks just as sensual as it is. 

Feren stands before the edge of the bed. His armour’s gone, only his tunic and tights remaining. His face is dipped, eyes down. Legolas wonders vaguely if he was specially chosen, drawn at random, or volunteered for this duty. 

Behind Legolas, his father muses leisurely, “It is time, Legolas.”

Legolas turns his face. By the door, his father stands tall and proud, beautiful as ever, in long, flowing silver robes that match his elegant hair. It was time years ago, but he’s prolonged this. Perhaps he still thinks Legolas a child, or perhaps his son simply slipped his mind. Legolas prefers not to think of either. 

Thranduil continues, “You are at an age where you will wish to experience certain... pleasures. And I am not a cruel enough guardian to stop you.” Legolas keeps his face expressionless, though he wants to lift an eyebrow. He didn’t think Thranduil would’ve noticed any dalliances he did try, although he’s been told he’s not as subtle as he thinks. A footstep falls against the stone, and Thranduil explains what they both know. “We cannot risk an illegitimate heir, and surely you can appreciate why this places certain restrictions on you. ...But there is no reason to restrain you when it comes to those that cannot carry.” Feren takes a deep breath, drawing Legolas’ eyes. 

He doesn’t mention to his father that he would find free reign with the men of his father’s guard to be quite satisfactory. Feren respectfully keeps his head bowed, and while Legolas eyes the line of his strong jaw, more hushed footsteps fall, and a hand splays across the middle of Legolas’ back. It presses between his shoulder blades, and he has to fight for control, to not react or _lean into_ the sensual stroke that rises along his spine, flattening and dragging his hair. The sharp tug to the back of his skull makes his teeth grit. When Thranduil speaks again, he’s so close that Legolas can feel the ghost of breath on the back of his ear. 

Thranduil seems to purr, “However, it will not do to have my inexperienced son providing sub par performances.” Another step closer—Thranduil’s side is nearly brushing his. The hand pulls back but stays entangled in his hair, raking back through it as Thranduil finishes, “So I will instruct you until you are satisfactory.”

Legolas bites his bottom lip and attempts to suppress a shiver of delight. The announcement is better than he’d hoped. He can’t help but wish that Feren would step aside to allow their king to push Legolas to the bed and _fill him_. It would be a better lesson, he thinks, and even more so, it would give him a chance to be _so close_ to the beautiful man that made him. 

But of course, that was never an option. Thranduil orders, “Strip him,” and Legolas nods in immediate acceptance. Feren is no Thranduil, but he’s still a handsome man, and there’s still a vein of eagerness when Legolas steps forward to him. 

Lifting long fingers, Legolas sweeps back the dusty brown hair over Feren’s shoulders. He has the top pulled back and tied to keep it out of his face, like but less elaborate than the braids Legolas likes to wear behind his ears. The tunic Feren wears is brown and simply tied; Legolas reaches for the laces. 

Thranduil asks languidly, “Why are you looking down, Feren? Do you not find my son pleasing?”

Feren immediately answers, “No, my lord,” and lifts his gaze. It levels with Legolas instantly, fueled by the permission, and Legolas is struck with the lust written clearly all over Feren’s face. He’s unaccustomed to it. But then, most would not dare look at their prince with such obvious intentions. Feren adds, more for Thranduil’s benefit than Legolas’, “He is very beautiful.”

“He is indeed,” Thranduil agrees. That, more than the praise itself, makes Legolas feel hot. His cheeks warm, and he glances away from Feren’s deep eyes, busying himself instead with the tie. Thranduil asks, “Are you pleased to be chosen?”

Without hesitation, Feren insists, “I am, my lord. I simply did not think myself worthy.”

“You are not,” Thranduil nearly snorts. “But you will do for a simple lesson.”

Feren doesn’t reply, and Legolas remains quiet. He concentrates on pulling the threads of Feren’s tunic loose, which proves surprisingly difficult. He’s never had to think about undressing before, and stripping some else seems to make him fumble where he’s never been clumsy before. It could just as easily be his father’s eyes on him, keeping him off balance. When he finally has the tunic hanging open to brush off Feren’s shoulders, he lets Feren do most of the work to remove it. 

He’s grabbed from behind, suddenly enough that his breath hitches. Thranduil wraps one arm around his stomach, fingers splayed across him to hold him still, while the other hand slides smoothly beneath his collar. His neckline is stretched wide enough for one of the threads to snap. Thranduil’s hand slips across Legolas’ breast, while Thranduil murmurs, “You are missing opportunities, Legolas. Stripping a man is not skinning an animal. There is an... _art_... to it.”

As he speaks, he clenches his hand around Legolas’ breast, and Legolas has to bite his lip to stifle his gasp. His father kneads over his strong chest, breath curling over his shoulder and snaking along the side of his neck. Then all of Thranduil’s lithe fingers are curling in his fabric and drawing it aside, opening his chest up to their audience. Feren’s eyes rake appreciatively down Legolas’ stomach while Thranduil peels the tunic from Legolas’ body. When that’s gone, he dips one hand into Legolas’ tights, suddenly grabbing and cupping Legolas’ cock and balls all in one go, the other hand pushing at the green material. Legolas’ breath is held, his body trembling, while his father massages him. He’s never been touched like this before. Yet Thranduil holds him so easily, as though caging Legolas’ cock is simply another everyday duty for him, and Legolas is powerless to do anything about it. There’s a special skill in the way Thranduil palms his shaft and fingers his balls, holding captive but stimulating along the way. It becomes increasingly difficult for Legolas not to whimper and grind himself shamefully into his father’s grip. 

Thranduil only releases him to have both hands push the remainder of the tights down his body, allowing him to step out of them and stand bare before his potential lover. He can still feel the imprint of his father’s hands, but that memory isn’t enough once the real thing’s snaked away. Legolas is left to roll Feren’s tights down. He doesn’t cup Feren’s cock just yet because it doesn’t feel right: he doesn’t have that right—not like how his father _owns him_ , and in a sense, already has a cage around his cock. It feels strange once they’ve lost contact and he’s alone, shedding Feren of all that lies between.

When he’s finished, they have a moment to look at one another. Feren stares at him appreciatively, and he observes the pleasing lines of Feren’s taut body. He doesn’t quite know what to do next, but then a hand pushes at the middle of his back, and Legolas just barely catches himself to stop from stumbling forward. Thranduil commands, “Arrange him on the bed how you like.”

Feren isn’t a toy, though Thranduil speaks of him as such. Legolas is hesitant to push him down but nevertheless does. Legolas takes both of his shoulders and guides him back, and Feren’s knees buckle easily, his rear hitting the rolled up blankets. Legolas nods towards the headboard, and Feren shuffles back along the mattress, until Legolas grabs one of his ankles to steady him. Then Feren falls down against the sheets, lying limp like a doll made of cloth. Legolas climbs atop the bed to follow.

He’s acutely aware, as he rises onto all fours, of his father’s eyes on his back. He’s as exposed as Feren is, and Feren’s eyes rake all over his form. It looks as though Feren would very much like to _touch_ his prince, but he plays his duty well and doesn’t move. Even when Legolas climbs between his legs, Feren’s legs have to be pushed open for him. Legolas slips his hands beneath Feren’s thighs, marveling at the soft flesh, and spreads them over his own. His knees dig into the mattress, Feren’s lifted into the air. Feren’s arms lay useless at his sides, and Legolas wonders what to do with his own. 

He doesn’t need to ask. Thranduil has already reached his side, and a moment later, familiar hands are at his hips. Thranduil’s palms trace the jut of them, dipping down between his legs, and then he’s being pushed open. Thranduil gently spreads his thighs, drawling casually, “You should display your cock more amply, Legolas. You bear the royal line behind it. You should be proud of that.”

Legolas nods, breathing too late to stop himself, “Yes, Ada.” Then his cheeks flush, and he has to school his face back into neutrality. Every time his father touches him, he feels dizzy. It’s intoxicating, far more erotic than he could ever be alone. Thranduil’s fingers delay only a moment to squeeze Legolas’ tender thighs, and then they draw away, leaving him fighting back a mewl. He’s beginning to wonder why his instructions must be limited to words and fleeting touches. Surely, it would be better if Thranduil were to demonstrate on _him_.

Legolas isn’t in the habit of question his father. Not aloud, anyway. He’s brooded over disagreements and occasionally walked away, but he’s learned there’s little point in bickering. He tries to return his focus to Feren, who is certainly handsome, though no one is ever as much so as King Thranduil. 

Taking a stride towards the head of the bed, Thranduil orders, “Prepare him.” Legolas looks up, unsure of what this means. He has only vague notions of the basics. Thranduil folds his arms behind his back, now looking down at Feren, who seems to be struggling to remain an inactive participant. Holding him still with a sharp gaze alone, Thranduil elaborates, “Since you are both willing subjects of Elven descent, you will only require a small amount of liquid to ease the way. As you will surely encounter situations where there is nothing better on hand, saliva will suffice for this. Coat your fingers in what you can, then work a single finger inside him. When you feel as though you can comfortably do so, add a second finger, and stretch him wide enough to house your instrument.” When Thranduil’s finished, his eyes flicker back to Legolas, as though checking that he understood it all. Legolas nods. 

He lifts a tentative hand, trying to look bolder than he feels, and places it against his lips. He brings his tongue out to lap down the line of his fingers, trying to be as regal whilst wetting his digits. Both Feren and his father are watching him intently. 

He continues to lick himself when Thranduil moves back to him, taking a seat on the bed slightly behind him. He assumes it’s a position of observation, but then a fist twists in his hair and jerks him back. Legolas gasps, his mouth pulled away from his hand, and a second later, two long fingers are shoved between his lips. He nearly gags on them, but they show no mercy. Legolas is held in place by his hair while his father adds a third finger and pushes all three as far back as they can go. 

“You must do so properly,” Thranduil hisses, and it sounds like there might be a laugh somewhere in it. “If you cannot or wish not to, you may also make use of your partner’s mouth.” 

Legolas couldn’t nod if he wanted to. He doesn’t reach for Feren. He sits where he is, naked and hard with a subject’s legs open around him, his father’s hand stuffed into his mouth and forcibly stretching his jaw. The fingers stroke down his tongue, twisting to push as far back as possible, then pulling out again only to shove back inside. Legolas tries to lick at them, but they take up too much room and he’s heady from the contact. He lets his father fuck his mouth with three fingers until he has to close his eyes and moan around them, shameful but undeniable. By the time Thranduil pulls his hand away, it’s dripping, and Legolas has trouble closing his jaw. 

Hanging open and breathing hard, Legolas is still while Thranduil wipes himself off across Legolas’ chest. When Thranduil’s knuckles drag across Legolas’ left nipple, it buds to hardness. Thranduil rubs along to the other one, leaving it glistening a wet pink. Legolas can feel the cooling liquid on his skin but tries not to react. Instead, he lifts one nearly-shaking hand to Feren’s face. 

Feren opens his mouth for his prince. He takes two of Legolas’ fingers easily. Legolas can’t bring himself to do the same thing as his father—it seemed too lewd, too rough a treatment to dole out on his first time, with a partner who can’t possibly desire him as much as he desires his master. He only draws in and out slowly, never going back to Feren’s throat. Feren sucks on him lightly, and it sends another shiver up Legolas’ spine; he wishes he’d done that to his father’s hand. It probably would’ve pleased him.

Before long, Legolas’ fingers are as wet as they’ll become from such activities, and Legolas draws them out. As much fun as this anticipation is, he’s starting to long for the real thing—he’s _very_ hard, and it’s difficult to resist touching himself. He thinks of tracing Feren’s nipples the way his father did to him, but in the interest of time, he runs straight down to Feren’s hips, where his stiff shaft is arched above his stomach. It obscures the small patch of brown tufts that cover his base, but shows off well his large, round balls. They’re slightly less pink and tight than Legolas’, though no less fun to look at. Beneath them, Legolas follows the indent to the puckered hole nestled between the cheeks of Feren’s ass. When he presses his fingers to it, Feren’s breath hitches. 

Thranduil glances at him but says nothing about whether or not he is allowed to make noises. Legolas has no clue what the two of them discussed before this, but he imagines Feren is as much in the dark as himself. While Thranduil loves all of his subjects, he isn’t gentle with them all. Legolas keeps his own mouth closed, once he’s adjusted to being free of his father’s fingers. He concentrates instead on rubbing small, slick circles around Feren’s puckered brim. It twitches against his ministrations. It looks tiny, far too tight to fit inside, but he knows that looks can be deceiving. When he pushes the blunt head of his index finger against it, he manages to pop inside. 

While he squirms it deeper, breath held, he finds himself hoping that his father will correct him. He wants to be shown the proper way, not on Feren but on himself. He wants Thranduil to come behind him and spear him open on many greedy fingers, but Thranduil is unfortunately quiet, and Legolas is left to work Feren open by himself. First with one finger, then two, he widens his host’s entrance. He tries to be gentle, never forcing the hot flesh to move beyond ways it can. If there’s any pain, Feren doesn’t show it. Legolas is still scissoring Feren apart when Thranduil says, “That is enough. He is an elf, and he will take his prince.”

Naturally, Legolas wonders what that means—do non-elves have a harder time? He doesn’t dare to ask. He withdraws his fingers.

He knows what comes next. It’s obvious. He would know even if he couldn’t think; his cock hovers over the slick entrance, wanting to be sheathed inside. But his hips hesitate, hoping for instruction. It doesn’t come. He’s left feeling foolish in front of his king. He tilts his hips, trying to aim himself down between Feren’s legs and shuddering each time his tip touches skin. 

An arm reaches over him. A hand grasps around his shaft, and Legolas grits his teeth to hold back his whine. Thranduil points him steadily at Feren’s hole and leans down to Legolas’ ear to whisper, “Do it.”

Legolas obeys. He slips himself forward, saddened when Thranduil’s hand leaves him but pleased a second later. He slides easily inside Feren, not all the way at first, but enough that the pleasure takes him, and he moans as he stops, unable to hold back. Feren’s walls close around him, pulsing hotly, and then Feren takes a deep breath and opens again; Legolas can slide deeper. He’s slow, careful, and rocks his hips to help. The ride is smooth and wondrously soft. In little spurts, he sinks in to the very base. With his balls nestled against Feren’s ass, he grinds inside. Feren’s eyelids have fallen half closed, his cheeks flushed a light pink.

“That appeared awkward,” Thranduil muses, spoiling a part of Legolas’ joy with the familiar note of disapproval. “You will have to keep better care of the lines of your body next time.” Legolas nods once. He feels like apologizing: he would’ve liked to look good for his father. But he knows that an apology isn’t what Thranduil wants, and he looks down at Feren instead. 

It’s his first time being inside someone. It’s exquisite, and if it weren’t for their audience, he’d already be pounding into Feren, seeking a quick release. Unaccustomed to the tightness and the heat, he doesn’t imagine he’ll last long. He has no idea how long he’s expected to. Basking in the pleasure, he hesitates and waits until his father pats his hip and tells him, “Move.”

He arches forward, grinding his hips hard into Feren’s body. Feren’s chin lifts, his head burying in the pillow. He lets out a low moan, which Thranduil doesn’t scold. When Legolas looks up at his father, he finds Thranduil eyeing Feren’s face and smiling lightly, perhaps impressed that his son could draw such a noise. Eager for more, Legolas leans down enough to put his hands against the mattress, one on either side of Feren’s body, and then draws his hips back out. He slams in again, groaning with the ricochet of pleasure, only to repeat the process. Each stab of his hips is harsher than the next. The rewards turn him greedy. Feren has a lovely body and feels delicious each time, convulsing pleasantly around him, squeezing at him, seeming to suck and squelch with their thin layer of saliva. Legolas tries to fuck him hard, filling him with royal cock at a rapid, messy pace.

When Legolas lets out his first real moan, long and lavish and unstoppable, Feren cries out and shoots a hand back to grip the headboard. His fingers curl in the carved branches, while Legolas continues fucking his loyal subject. The desire on Feren’s face makes it easy to fill him, though the presence of their king is what keeps Legolas so perilously close to the end. Thranduil only punctures that a little by chastising midway, “Your pace is erratic, Legolas. You should have more grace.”

Legolas nods, breathing a heady, “Yes, _Ada._ ” He tries to school his hips into a more steady rhythm, but it’s difficult to maintain such control. He thinks he will have to return to Feren sometime, if he’s truly given that freedom. Feren’s body seems a perfect fit. Legolas could enjoy fucking him for hours upon hours, if it were possible to last so long. Legolas can only hope his stamina increases with practice. For now, every thrust brings him that much closer to a tangible ecstasy, and soon he’s mewling and moaning as much as his guard. Thranduil’s voice is the worst of it. 

Thranduil’s fingers brush several strands of long, yellow hair from over Legolas’ back, scooping them down to cascade over his shoulders. Legolas continues his movements while Thranduil rearranges his hair, musing quietly, “You look prettier when your hair is not stuck to your sweaty back.”

Legolas doesn’t know whether to apologize or whimper gratitude, but he’s too busy panting either way to be coherent. Thranduil makes a chuckling noise, as though amused by his son’s complete loss of composure. He asks idly, “Why are you not kissing your partner, my little leaf?”

The nickname makes Legolas moan like an animal in heat. He shuts his eyes, and for one amazing moment, smells his father’s musk close by, remembers his father’s hands on him, hears his father’s voice purring endearments into his ear. Then he opens again and bows to do as he’s bid. He ducks down to press a tender kiss to Feren’s lips. Feren tilts up, eagerly tasting Legolas back. His tongue swipes tentatively over Legolas’ mouth, as though asking a very sought-after permission, and Legolas opens to allow it inside. They share tongues and spit while their hips roll together, their taut chests already brushing and Legolas’ hair falling over Feren’s shoulders. Over them, Thranduil sighs, “You will need more practice with that mouth of yours.” Legolas would expect as much. 

He doesn’t quite know what to do with his tongue. Sometimes his lips don’t match the lines of Feren’s, and he doesn’t know when to open or close, and he feels inordinately _wet_. But he would happily kiss every guard in their kingdom if Thranduil would instruct him through it. He imagines he will draw Feren aside later regardless. 

He wants to come. He wants to last forever, but it’s becoming unbearable. His balls have tightened and it feels almost painful to continue, but he doesn’t want to disappoint the man he loves. Before he can stop himself, he’s weakly crying for his father, whining, breathless, “ _Ada_ , what do I do?”

A hand strokes lovingly down the back of Legolas’ head, and one of his braids is playfully tugged. Thranduil says simply, “Fill your vessel.”

Legolas obeys. He comes instantly on his father’s command, spilling his seed into Feren’s willing body. Feren tosses his head to the side, face scrunching up as he gasps. One hand tightens against the headboard, the other in the sheets. Legolas watches in fascination, or as much as he can, amidst his own sea of _pleasure_ ; his orgasm is overwhelming. He empties jet after jet of his seed into Feren’s tight channel, rocking his hips the entire time, and then he grinds them in as though milking himself out. Feren looks like bliss has taken him over just as much. 

But when the flood of delight has passed, Legolas still buried inside, he realizes that Feren’s cock is still hard across his stomach. It makes sense, even in Legolas’ hazy state—he didn’t have the luxury of a warm elf seated around his cock. Legolas eyes it curiously, panting and coming down. 

An arm loops around his stomach. He’s dragged back, until his cock’s slipped out of Feren’s body. Feren’s legs slump, still spread around Legolas, and Thranduil snakes his hand away to note, “You did not make your partner come, Legolas. Apologize.”

Legolas licks his lips and murmurs, “I apologize.” He doesn’t know which of them he’s saying it to. Feren doesn’t at all look put out, and he doesn’t answer. 

Thranduil says, “Take him in your mouth, if you mean it.”

Legolas glances sideways. He feels a wreck, sweaty and breathing hard, wisps of his hair clinging to his neck and collarbone. Thranduil looks as elegant as ever, completely unfazed. He doesn’t seem to be joking. He rarely ever does, but Legolas did not expect to be told to service a guard. Nonetheless, he does as he’s ordered. He leans back down over Feren, settling to balance on his hands and knees. 

Remember Thranduil holding his shaft, Legolas takes hold of Feren’s and points it straight up. Feren makes a keening noise. Legolas open his mouth and descends over the head, unprepared for the musky stench of Feren’s crotch and the raw, salty taste of his skin. Legolas lowers carefully down despite these surprises, until he feels it nudge at the back of his throat. He’s only a little more than halfway down. He glances up at Feren, then at his father, but neither say anymore. So he seals his lips around it and shifts his position, trying to get comfortable. 

It tastes strange. It feels strange, particularly with having to hold his mouth open so wide, careful not to scrape his teeth along it; he imagines that would be unpleasant. He wonders if he should pull off and push back on, fucking it properly—or rather, letting it fuck him—but Thranduil says nothing of that. He can feel Feren’s hips straining beneath him, as though they want to buck up. 

Thranduil says, “Suck,” and Legolas does. He hollows out his cheeks. The dizziness of his own orgasm makes it easier; he feels lax and particularly compliant. He sucks over and over, until Feren moans suddenly, and a hot, sticky liquid bubbles out onto Legolas’ tongue. He gags but quickly controls himself. He has no idea what to do with it and thinks he’ll have to swallow if he doesn’t want to choke, but a hand works into his hair and pulls him back. The cock flops out of his mouth, and Thranduil points it back along Feren’s stomach, so that Feren’s release only paints himself. The parts that are at the corners of Legolas’ mouth, he quickly licks away, swallowing down in the hopes that it won’t be seen as failure. He imagines his skills with his mouth could stand to be improved, but he wouldn’t mind more practice on that, either.

The hand stays in his hair, massaging his scalp as Thranduil takes a seat beside him. Looking down at their spent guard, Thranduil asks, “How was he?”

To Legolas’ surprise, Feren looks torn. It seemed as though he quite enjoyed himself through the experience, even if he was late to finish. But after several seconds’ pause, he tells his king, “I... believe he could use more instruction, my lord.”

Legolas’ eyes instantly shift to his father. The hand stills in his hair. Thranduil face takes on a displeased look. 

His hand draws away, and he says, eyeing only Feren, “You may leave, Legolas.”

Legolas opens his mouth to protest, but it dies quickly on his tongue. He knows he’s disappointed Thranduil, which is a crushing reality after how delightful the rest of it was. When he looks at Feren, Feren’s eyes are downcast. 

Legolas lifts a hand to Thranduil’s arm, murmuring, “Ada—”

But Thranduil repeats, “Go.” It’s decisive and can’t be argued. 

Dejectedly, Legolas climbs back off the bed. He feels wet and obvious, but he changes back into his clothes nonetheless. Feren’s remain in a puddle on the floor, and on the bed, Thranduil announces, “I will take you properly for an apology.”

Legolas glances back to see excitement flicker over Feren’s face, quickly covered again under the scrutiny of his lords. Thranduil has begun to open his robes, and Legolas is dying to stay and watch but doesn’t dare. He can’t risk disappointing his father twice. 

His only solace is that, perhaps, there will be more instruction. Dressed but ruined, Legolas leaves the chambers. 

Outside them, he can still feel his father’s touch. 

But he walks back to his rooms alone, trying to hold his head up high.


	2. Feren

He feels terrible for his lie. He’s always lived by truth, but it’s been borne of sheer necessity. Feren holds no delusions about his status in life. He’s a lowly guard, hardly worthy of a prince, let alone a _king_ , and these ‘lessons’ are the only chance he has at their exquisite touch. 

The lie is worth it when he’s summoned to the private chambers again. When he arrives, he finds Prince Legolas already seated upon the bed, wearing nothing but the tiny ties in his braids. His porcelain skin glimmers in the star and candlelight, his breast already rising and falling faster than usual, perhaps in anxiety over his father’s presence. Thranduil stands beside the bed, looking as strikingly handsome as ever. 

Feren is struck anew by his royals’ beauty every time he sees them. He does his best to be respectful. He shuts the door behind himself, comes to stand at the end of the bed, and lowers his chin, silent until spoken to. His eyes long to devour Legolas’ supple form, but he averts his gaze, his inferiority and deceit twisting in his stomach. He doesn’t deserve such beauty. 

But he receives it all the same. Thranduil bids, “Look at him, Feren, unless you find him displeasing.”

Feren finds him more appealing than any other in all of the Greenwood, except, perhaps, the king himself. There are others Feren’s been attracted to over the years—Tauriel’s fierce skill, Galion’s experienced whispers, Meludir’s cute smile—but they pale in comparison to their masters. 

And atop that, Legolas is _very_ skilled in these matters. His last round with Feren was breathtaking, and the only reason Feren managed to resist so long was his own will and a bruised bite to the inside of his mouth. The idea that it was the prince’s first time still baffles him—he was certainly not so spectacular on his first attempts at making love. 

He didn’t have a father like Thranduil, though. When Thranduil speaks, lust floods the room, and as Feren lifts his gaze, Thranduil purrs, “Undress your partner, Legolas.”

Feren isn’t surprised to see the shudder in Legolas’ body when he obeys his king. He slips off the bed, drawing to his full height, his white-gold hair tumbling gracefully down his shoulders and his blue eyes already half-lidded. He drifts forward, his cock already half-filled between his strong thighs. The smattering of blond hair above it blends in well with his creamy skin. Legolas’ hands come to Feren’s shoulders, and his cloak is brushed off of them. 

The fingers that unfasten Feren’s tunic are steadier than before. Legolas has gained confidence, or determination, or perhaps he’s practiced in the interim. Feren is carefully still, unmoving unless otherwise told. He knows that he’s imminently replaceable—anyone in the kingdom would covet this position. So he makes himself indispensable in his surrender: he’s a mere instrument to his lords’ desires. He resists the urge to pick Legolas up by his thin waist and toss him back to the mattress, mount him like an animal, and drive him deep into the mattress. 

Feren stands unmoving as Legolas draws the tunic all the way open and smoothes it over his sides, pulling it down his shoulders and pushing it to the floor. The tights that Feren has left are tented. Legolas steps close, so close that their noses are nearly touching, his feet to either side of Feren’s. Legolas slips his thumbs into either side of the hem, then pushes them down, sinking to his own knees as he does so. It puts his face level with Feren’s soon-freed cock, and Feren has a sharp intake of breath at the memory of the prince’s mouth around him. Legolas never got all the way down and didn’t seem to know what to do with it, but it was a blissful experience for Feren, nonetheless. If nothing else, the prince’s lips look particularly pretty wrapped around a hard cock. 

He doesn’t take it in his mouth tonight. There’s a brief moment where he eyes it, and Feren hopes for a kiss, a lick, anything—but then Legolas draws back to his feet. Now that they’re both naked, Feren experiences a spark of anticipation and one of disappointment. He’d half hoped that Legolas would require his father’s guidance again. The only thing better than feeling Legolas touch him has been seeing Thranduil touch his son. Thranduil keeps his distance and is silent as Legolas ushers Feren onto the bed.

Feren climbs on, prepared to lie flat in the sheets again—facing up, so he can see his lords’ faces and taste his prince’s lips. He’s almost settled when Thranduil muses, “Perhaps a different position.”

Feren glances back at Legolas for guidance. Legolas looks momentarily lost, and Feren waits until Legolas has climbed onto the bed beside him.

Then Legolas takes hold of Feren’s hips, turns and lifts them, drawing him onto all fours. He’s familiar with the pose, though it’s been some time since he was taken in it. He’s pushed forward, and he crawls on hands and knees until he’s at the headboard, plenty of space behind him.

Something wet hits his tailbone, and he looks back with a start. Legolas is working his fingers into his mouth, and in his haste, he’s dripped saliva down onto Feren’s waiting rear. Or perhaps he’s done it on purpose. When he draws his hand away from his mouth, it’s coated in spit, and he presses his fingers between the cheeks of Feren’s ass, finding and rubbing Feren’s hole. 

Feren’s always enjoyed such play. He’d enjoy anything from Legolas, he imagines, but he finds particular interest in the tender touch of his prince’s fingers, dancing wetly around his puckered brim. He tries to flex himself open, both relaxing and wanting to put on a show. Legolas places one hand on Feren’s ass, perhaps to steady himself, and carefully watches the other do its work. Feren is tempted to drop his head and give in to the sensations, but he doesn’t want to waste an opportunity to view a naked Legolas, and clearly Thranduil wishes his son observed. So Feren watches while Thranduil moves closer, slipping onto the bed beside Legolas. 

His hand rises behind Legolas’ head, and Feren recognizes Legolas’ quick gasp: it means his father’s fisted his hair, as he seems so wont to do. Thranduil suddenly shoves Legolas forward, plunging his face against Feren’s rear, and Feren barely manages to stifle his cry in time. Legolas’ nose digs into his crack, Legolas’ eyes closed and his hair pressed against Feren’s cheeks, his breath ghosting over Feren’s twitching hole and down to his hanging balls and cock. 

“Perhaps you did not adequately wet him last time,” Thranduil intones, so very casual for an act so lewd. Feren isn’t about to complain. He wills himself to stay still instead of humping Legolas’ face, while Thranduil instructs, a tinge of a smile twisting over his handsome mouth, “Use your tongue, my leaf. Your mouth must not go unused, if you are to be any good at this.”

Legolas lets out a muffled mewl that twists along Feren’s skin. Then Feren feels something warm, spongy and wet lap over his hole, and he knows that it’s begun. Legolas licks him, first in quick lines, then in a slow circle around his furrowed muscles. Thranduil doesn’t relinquish his grasp on Legolas’ hair until Legolas is steadily working away at his job, spearing Feren’s hole open on his tongue. 

Feren drops his head forward, unable to crane his neck back any longer. The prince is a natural. He laps away at Feren with a degree of eagerness, probably more to please his father than Feren. Feren understands the sentiment. Even when Thranduil is merely watching, his presence, his _dominance_ over them is powerful and captivating. Legolas hungrily eats out Feren’s ass on Thranduil’s behest, while Feren fights not to tremble and buck into Legolas’ pretty face. 

As Legolas licks away at Feren’s center, his hands slip to Feren’s thighs. He grips them tightly, squeezing to hold on, and it makes Feren’s cock twitch in _want_ , growing all the harder. Legolas twists his tongue, and it seems to roll up, pushing at Feren squarely in the middle, until Feren’s walls give way and Legolas’ tongue is worming inside. It writhes against his walls, tasting and forcing him to moan, then mewl, grateful when Thranduil doesn’t quiet him. Legolas pushes his tongue in and out until his fingers have slid up Feren’s cheeks and dug in against his hole. By the time one pushes inside along the bottom of Legolas’ tongue, Feren is dripping wet. Legolas moves the finger around, testing its depth, and removes his tongue to add a second finger instead. 

He kneads Feren open for a time, during which Feren fists his hands against the mattress and strains to keep from spilling himself already. Legolas is still stretching Feren when he asks, “Ada...?”

“You are overworking him,” Thranduil councils, his voice surprisingly soft. Feren looks back over his shoulder to see the king eyeing Legolas’ wet mouth and glistening lips, almost swollen from use, his cheeks hazy and his blue eyes dilated. Yet there’s a helplessness across it, buried under a need to prove himself, that steels into determination at Thranduil’s bidding.

Legolas draws his fingers slowly out, dragging his own spittle with it, and straightens up onto his knees. He holds his magnificent cock firm in his hands. It takes him a second to line himself up, and then he’s pushing inside, and Feren has to lift one hand to cover his mouth and stop his scream. The prince’s entrance is smooth, fast and _wonderful_. It glides down Feren’s hot channel and rocks swiftly in and out, until it’s filling Feren as deeply as it can, and Feren needs to drop his hand again to steady himself. Stuffed full of the prince’s cock, Feren adjusts his position and clenches down, delighting in Legolas’ moan. 

For the first few thrusts, Legolas is slow. He fills Feren deeply and drags out almost all the way, rolling in a steady rhythm, far more even than his staccato thrusts of their last joining. Feren enjoys this as much as he thoroughly enjoyed that. It doesn’t seem that Legolas’ cock can do any wrong. 

This goes on for some time, luxurious and delightful, during which Feren attempts to look neutral before his king. He wants this again. He wants to see them touch again. He keeps his face blank as he’s impaled on his prince’s perfect cock, again and again, while the occasional mewl slips from his mouth, unable to be held back. 

Finally, Legolas descends on him. A thin arm is wrapped around his middle, and he feels Legolas’ silken hair slide down his arm, bracketing his body. Legolas’ other hand lands besides Feren’s, holding him up the same way. When he’s seated, Legolas returns to his thrusts, only faster, sharper. He drives Feren forward with his force, and only trained muscles keep Feren from toppling into the mattress. Legolas pounds into him with a growing ferocity, holding him close and panting hard beside his ear. It becomes increasingly difficult for Feren to hold back. Legolas seems to hit the perfect angle every time, and his relentless thrusts keep Feren swamped in pleasure, so close to the brink. 

He bites his lip _hard_. It isn’t enough. Prince Legolas is simply too talented. Feren bites harder, until pain spirals along his cheek and blood fills his mouth. He carefully holds it back, struggling not to choke. At least it keeps the ecstasy off his face. He manages to hold his load back. From the sounds of Legolas’ ragged breathing, he isn’t far off. Thranduil’s voice suddenly purrs, “You’re learning.”

Legolas pants, “Thank you, Ada,” in a breathless plea. The _love_ in his voice is staggering. It leaves Feren to wonder if Legolas wishes it were Thranduil he was filling, but Feren quickly pushes the image away—it’s too much, too beautiful. He hangs his head, both drowning in the pleasure and trying to keep his wits about him. 

The bed dips to Feren’s side. Thranduil has come closer. He asks, “Why are you not heeding your lover’s body, Legolas?” The tone is fond but admonishing, and Legolas’ thrust pauses, as though he doesn’t understand.

Then he drives forward again, causing Feren to gasp. Legolas’ arm shifts from his stomach, hand coming to wrap around his cock. Feren moans immediately. Legolas sets in to pumping him in time with their fucking, and soon Feren is unable to think at all. He’s vaguely glad that Legolas’ hand is mostly dry, because the sting of it is the only thing keeping Feren from exploding. 

Several dozen strokes in, Legolas pitches harder forward and lets out a wild cry, his cock bursting inside Feren’s rear. Seed bubbles up along his channel, filling him deeply and rubbed in with shallow thrusts. Feren clenches around it, wanting to hold on, but that only milks out more. Legolas continues to pump him, and suddenly it’s too much: Feren bites harder into his cheek to keep from screaming, and his cock spurts against the sheets. 

Legolas still strokes him. Feren dizzily spills himself, his arms and thighs trembling. He’s impressed he held off as long as he did; the prince is excellent. Feren takes his fill of royal seed with a mingled sense of honour and joy, until both of them are spent and panting. 

Legolas is dragged out of him again. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Thranduil is the cause. Feren wants to collapse and curl up in bed, but instead he pushes to his knees, sitting above the stain he made. He looks sideways at his king and meets the inquiring gaze.

Legolas was outstanding. But lying is easier the second time around, and Feren bows his head as though he can’t bear to share his report. 

Thranduil asks simply, “How was he?”

Feren pushes down the guilt and lets the hunger in—even recently satiated, he would _love_ to be claimed again by his king—and he says quietly, “It was... lacking, my lord.”

There’s a pause in the room. Feren can’t bring himself to look back at Legolas; he feels like a traitor. When he looks up through his lashes, he finds confusion on Thranduil’s face. 

Thranduil’s hand reaches out. It tucks some of Feren’s brown hair behind his pointed ear. The touch alone makes Feren’s cock twitch, his heart leaping. Looking only at Feren, Thranduil says, “You are dismissed, Legolas.”

Feren almost crumbles. Almost. But then he’s drawn into Thranduil’s waiting body, and he can’t regret his lies.


	3. Meludir

Meludir is ecstatic. 

He was only briefly told what would happen, but it’s been enough to keep his head in the clouds all day. He can’t imagine why he was chosen—he knows he’s wholly unworthy—but he would never refuse his king anything, let alone _this_. To be given to the prince is... something out of a wild, forbidden fantasy. 

And it’s come true. He’s standing in the king’s private chambers, next to a large, plush bed with the blankets rolled back: _ready to be used_. Meludir tries not to look at it. It’s a struggle enough to keep his face dignified when he’s around his lords. The second the door opens, his breath hitches. King Thranduil and Prince Legolas step inside, both as regal as ever. 

Meludir instantly falls to his knees. He can’t help himself—he bows so low that his forehead nearly touches the ground, his honey-orange hair tumbling over his shoulders. He’s served on patrol with Legolas before, but... this is a bedroom. 

And he’s an offering unworthy of even his master’s gaze. He stays against the floor until he’s told otherwise, though the stone is hard against his bare palms. He hears their footsteps, and Thranduil’s deep, alluring voice asks, “Well?” 

Meludir doesn’t dare presume the word is meant for him. But Legolas doesn’t answer, and the footsteps come closer, Thranduil drawling, “Do you wish to take your lover on his knees?”

Meludir shivers. If he was taken right here against the ground, he would still be happy. He imagines he would bruise—he tends to much more easily than his colleagues—but it would be worth it. And he would cherish the bruises afterward. 

But Legolas tells him quietly, “Stand, Meludir.”

The prince has used his name before. It still puts butterflies in his stomach every time. He slowly rises again, keeping his eyes down, until he can’t take it anymore and breaks, meeting Legolas’ cool gaze. Legolas has such clear eyes, pretty and unique. 

Yet there’s an uncertainty in them that shocks Meludir. Legolas has always struck him as imminently confident and cool. Meludir’s never seen him unsure, though now self-doubt shines through Legolas’ face, and he glances sideways at his father before acting. 

When he receives no guidance, he steps forward and lifts a hand to cup Meludir’s cheek. The long fingers brush back through his hair, curving to tilt his head to the side. With difficulty, Meludir suppresses the tension of his excitement and surrenders himself, trying to become limp and pliant in the prince’s hand. He only just barely succeeds. Legolas hesitates for two too-long seconds, then dips forward, his lips brushing over Meludir’s. 

Meludir’s inexperienced. He’s been kissed, but only rarely, and never by someone so prestigious. He’s delighted to feel Legolas’ lips on his. It’s soft, sweet, and wondrously warm; Meludir’s eyes slip closed, a happy mewl leaving his throat. Legolas traces a probing tongue along his lips, and Meludir opens, allowing the prince inside. Kisses with tongue he’s had even less. After this, he thinks he might seek many more. 

Legolas’ skill is obvious from the start. His tongue slips fluidly inside Meludir and swirls expertly around, capturing Meludir’s tongue and teasing it into play. Meludir has absolutely no idea what to do but doesn’t need to; his prince guides him. He follows Legolas’ lead and lets himself be kissed and kissed, until Legolas parts them, and Meludir is left to whine and wish he hadn’t. 

It’s soon worth it. Legolas brings his hands to the hem of his own tunic, and in one swift, easy movement, he pulls it from over his head. Meludir watches with wide eyes as Legolas rids himself of his top and strips easily from his bottoms, efficiently revealing all his creamy skin to Meludir’s fortunate gaze. When his clothes are on the floor and he stands naked before Meludir, Meludir can’t seem to do anything but gawk at his prince’s handsome body. It’s utterly gorgeous. Everywhere Meludir looks, he finds something to marvel at—the chiseled cut of Legolas’ jaw, the long lines of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders and the taut stretch of his chest, the lean lines of his stomach and the dusting of muscles, pink-brown nipples and slender hips, strong thighs, lithe legs. Meludir’s eyes catch particularly long on Legolas’ semi-hard cock, jutting thick and straight from below his blond curls, the pink, hooded head making Meludir’s mouth water. 

Beside them, Thranduil chuckles with clear amusement, “This one seems to like you, my little leaf.”

Meludir’s cheeks instantly flush, but he still can’t look away. He mumbles weakly, “I apologize, my lords.”

But Legolas gently says, “It’s alright.”

Thranduil coaxes, “Return the favour, Legolas. Compliment him.”

Meludir’s breath holds as Legolas says, “You are very... cute.”

Meludir blushes hotly. He murmurs, “Thank you, my lord.” And then, before he can stop himself, he’s gushing, “You are exceedingly beautiful, even more so than I could have dreamed. I... I feel honoured for this opportunity.” He ducks his head in another bow, unsure if he should tell Thranduil the same. 

Legolas answers, “Thank you.” But he moves, leaving Meludir’s vision. 

He steps instead behind Meludir’s back, while Meludir stands at attention, wondering excitedly what’s next. Legolas steps into him, right against him, so that their bodies are flush together and he can feel the rigid line of Legolas’ cock against his ass. He can barely breathe. His hair is swept aside, exposing his neck, and Meludir tilts his head away to try and give more. Legolas’ breath is warm along his jaw. 

Long, talented fingers slip beneath his arm and across his chest. The tie of his tunic is drawn out from beneath his throat, pulled loose and drawn aside. He’s glad he was instructed to come without armour—the fabric is thin enough that he can feel _everything_. Legolas’ hands stray inside the opening they create, running flat along Meludir’s breast. They squeeze him, and he lets out a shameful mewl, nearly shaking. 

When he glances at the king, he finds a suave smirk on Thranduil’s face. Meludir drops his gaze again, concentrating instead on the way Legolas explores his body, then pushes the tunic open and peels it aside. The air in the room is a pleasant temperature, but he shivers nonetheless. He’s distinctly aware that he has none of the prince’s muscles. He’s still smooth with his youth, and he has to hope that Legolas doesn’t mind settling for that. 

Legolas pushes five fingers down into the hem of Meludir’s tights, wrapping along his crotch and cupping it suddenly. Meludir gasps, arching forward, his head falling back onto Legolas’ shoulders. He’s never had anyone touch him there before, but he doesn’t say so. He isn’t so much younger than the prince. Now he wonders why he waited. 

He’s kneaded gently, and it’s an effort not to come. Legolas’ hand is far more pleasing than his own has ever been. He whimpers when it snakes away, mirroring the other to push the thin material down Meludir’s hips. He can feel Legolas lowering behind him, their contact parting. He’s shed of all his clothes. He stands, naked as his prince, before his fully clothed king, and tries not to melt in embarrassment and hunger. 

He hopes he’ll be thrown quickly to the bed, taken in rich, expensive sheets. But when he looks at Legolas, Legolas is hesitating. Finally, he turns to the bed himself and climbs on first. He shifts a pillow aside and sits against the headboard, like something out of Meludir’s wet dreams. Meludir’s smaller cock is completely hard. He feels wanton and foolish but doesn’t know how to be any other way. 

Legolas extends a hand. Meludir takes it. He’s gently tugged forward, until his knees hit the bed and he’s crawling on, trying not to be too eager but wanting to race forward. He’s guided to Legolas’ lap. He settles down into it, his creamy thighs squishing lightly against Legolas’, his cock poking into Legolas’ stomach and Legolas’ lifting next to his. He’s never felt so lucky in his life.

Legolas brings two fingers up to Meludir’s mouth and presses them against his bottom lip. Meludir doesn’t understand at first, but then they push against him and he opens, taking them along his tongue. They taste bland and a little salty, strange but very much worth it to keep Legolas’ eyes on his. Legolas tenderly feeds him until blunt fingernails touch the back of Meludir’s throat, and he half-chokes, hurriedly trying to catch himself after but blushing hard all the same. Legolas withdraws them halfway, only to push them in again, not quite so far. He murmurs, “Suck them, Meludir.”

Meludir’s needy whine is stifled. He obeys his prince and immediately sucks on the digits inside him. Legolas draws them in and out a few times, then pulls them away, and Meludir opens his mouth to let them go, his tongue hanging out to follow. 

Glancing down, Legolas dips his wet fingers between Meludir’s legs. As soon as they press below his balls, Meludir squeaks, his hands darting up to cover his mouth in embarrassment. Legolas continues to rub along his tender skin, looking determined, until those talented fingers are brushing over Meludir’s hole. He knew this was coming, of course, but that didn’t at all prepare for it. When he lets go of his mouth, he doesn’t know where to put his hands. It doesn’t seem as though they should lie limp anymore. 

He tentatively reaches forward, and when he isn’t stopped, he places them on Legolas’ shoulders. Legolas’ eyes flicker up to him once, then back down. Meludir keeps his touch light, though he longs to dive forced and wrap himself entirely around his prince. 

While Legolas fingers the outside of Meludir’s asshole, Thranduil comes to stand next to them. He purrs, ever part of the equation, “He is pretty, is he not?”

Legolas is _gorgeous_ , but Meludir doesn’t believe the king would speak directly to him. Indeed, Legolas answers, “Very much so.” Meludir’s heart leaps, but he’s too delighted to express his thanks. The tip of Legolas’ finger suddenly breaches Meludir’s hole, and he gasps, arching up. Legolas slowly pushes it deeper, one little bit at a time, and says huskily, “He is very tight, Ada.”

Meludir doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He almost says that it’s his first time, but he doesn’t want to risk them sending him away. The sensation of having something _inside him_ there is a strange one, but it doesn’t hurt like he might’ve thought it would, and his anticipation puts an odd twist of interest in it. Thranduil answers, “He is new, though aged enough for this. Perhaps it will suit you better. If you are careful, and he is willing, you will manage.”

Meludir is _very_ willing. He wants to open himself wider for his prince’s finger, but he’s having trouble thinking straight and making his body respond. When Legolas adds a second finger, Meludir lets out a keening noise, arching again. 

“What do you think of his breasts?” Thranduil asks, which makes Meludir’s half-lidded eyes fly open. He glances at his king and returns only to find Legolas staring at his flat chest. 

Suddenly burying both fingers to the knuckle, Legolas forces Meludir to rise, and he dips forward at the same time, mouth opening. His tongue pops out to lave over Meludir’s nipple, and Meludir’s head falls back, gasping loud. Legolas licks him again, then runs a short circle around the nub in the center, before flaying it to tempt it out. Only when it’s erect enough for Legolas to tug in his teeth does he lick across to the other one. He gives it the same treatment while his fingers work inside Meludir’s dilating channel. Meludir is already dizzy with lust, and he has to will himself not to come too soon. Legolas tugs at Meludir’s nipples until they’re soaked and sore, shimmering in the star and candlelight, turned a bright red. Legolas kisses them before he pulls away, his spare hand running up Meludir’s chest to twist in the back of his hair. 

“You have very cute breasts,” Legolas tells him, in a sensual purr worthy of Thranduil himself. He seems to be channeling his father, which Meludir is delighted to take. He doesn’t know what to say. 

He blurts, “They are yours any time, my prince.” And immediately after, his face burns; he can’t believe he said that. Legolas lifts an eyebrow. Ashamed, Meludir looks aside, only to catch amusement on Thranduil’s handsome features. 

Meludir’s grateful when the fingers do finally leave him. He feels thoroughly stretched, gaping open, and he wants Legolas inside him desperately. Legolas takes hold of his hips and lifts them, drawing him forward: Meludir hovers over Legolas’ sturdy cock. 

Then he’s pushed slowly down, and he fells the head of it breach him. It’s much thicker than the fingers were, and he yelps, but Legolas stops, holding there, all his weight in Legolas’ strong arms. He realizes his fingers have tightened in Legolas’ shoulders, and he tries to loose them. He takes a deep breath. He nods.

Legolas pushes deeper. It’s very, very slow, careful, and there is no pain, though it feels very, very _strange_. Meludir doesn’t know quite what to think. He wants it, though. And the more he thinks about it, the more he wants more: of course he wants Prince Legolas inside him. He tries to keep his channel open and tries to keep his thighs from tensing, letting Legolas control their movements—he does so very well. His face is slightly pinched in concentration, and then he’s fully seated, and Meludir’s weight drops onto Legolas’ thighs. 

Legolas’ grip relinquishes its hold. Meludir shifts, adjusting. Legolas feels impossibly _deep_ , buried so far inside him, thick and strong and rock-hard. His own cock is nearly leaking against Legolas’ stomach, but he doesn’t dare touch it. He clenches his ass once, just experimentally, and Legolas grunts. Meludir desperately wants to _kiss him_.

But Meludir is a good boy. He obeys his masters, and he doesn’t overstep his place. He waits, trembling around his prince’s cock, until Legolas rolls up into him, and a burst of pleasure ricochets through Meludir’s veins.

Legolas does it again, and Meludir gasps, then again, and he cries out. The thrusts become harder every time, and soon Legolas is nearly tossing him up, and Meludir is bouncing raunchily in Legolas’ lap. The air fills with slapping sounds from it, the slight musk of naked bodies and the squelch of the spit used to ease the way. He needs his grip on Legolas’ shoulders to steady himself. Legolas does most of the work, his powerful hips impressively corralling Meludir up, but Meludir knows that his own body is leaning into it, helping however it can. His hips are shaking beyond his control. Every time Legolas’ cock pounds into him, he experiences a wild explosion of bliss. He never knew having something inside him could feel that way. He’ll have to try his own fingers, but he’ll want _Legolas’_ fingers, or cock, or just about anything he could get the prince to give him. He opens his mouth, wanting to beg to be ravished, but he’s too busy blushing and trembling and whimpering to make any words. 

Legolas wraps a hand around his cock. Meludir whines terribly, wanting to tell Legolas not to but not daring—he’ll come too fast—but Legolas takes a firm hold of him and starts to pump. It’s perfectly in time with the thrusts of their hips. Meludir is fucked and stroked and driven mad from pleasure, and Legolas makes it worse by leaning forward and pressing his lips against Meludir’s. 

Meludir can’t stop himself any longer. He runs his hands into the back of Legolas’ neck, threading his fingers through silken hair, opening his mouth and letting Legolas lap away at him. Legolas kisses so expertly. Meludir can only surrender to it. They kiss over and over again. Meludir’s distantly aware of King Thranduil, sinking to sit on the bed beside them. His husky voice pierces their revere to suggest, “Kiss his neck, Legolas.”

Legolas seems to nod against Meludir’s mouth. He nips at Meludir’s bottom lip, then trails kisses down his chin, under his jaw and over his throat. Blunt teeth rake along his delicate skin, opening wide for a hot tongue to lave across him. Then Legolas latches onto him and _sucks_ , and Meludir squeals, sure he’s going to fall apart. 

He has no idea how he manages to last. Somehow, he rides Legolas’ cock and thrusts into Legolas’ hand and has his neck stroked and kissed, and he’s still holding on when Thranduil murmurs, “I would run my hands all over that adorable body.” Legolas snaps to life. His hand leaves Meludir’s cock, which Meludir’s oddly grateful for but whines over nonetheless, and Legolas’ hands spread all over him. They caress his smooth stomach, dip around his thin hips, run up his back and come down to squeeze at his thighs. Meludir knows he’s sandwiched between the two hottest elves in the kingdom, but he’s sure he’s also being pleasured by the greatest beauties in all of Middle Earth. Perhaps farther. He’s very, very lucky, and his head is thin for it, foggy and clouded, his skin nearly burning up; he’s sweating more than he ever has in training or on a hunt. Legolas’ hands both come back to Meludir’s crotch, five fingers wrapping back around his cock and the other five dipping to cup his balls. 

And he can’t take it anymore. He _screams_ , pitching forward to cling to Legolas for dear life. His cock spurts stream upon stream of seed right onto the prince’s lap, while his hips go wild, writhing atop their fill. His ears are buzzing. He thinks his vision might go. Consciousness prickles at the sides of his eyes, and he has one split-second of pure weightlessness, where everything is _perfect_.

But his heart slowly comes down to its usual beat, his breath raggedly returning. His head, still dizzy but not so faint, crawls itself back to the waking world. He realizes belatedly that he’s slumping against his prince and full of a wet, sticky liquid that’s surely his prince’s seed. 

He squeezes around it, and Legolas moans. He wants it to stay inside him. 

But an arm loops around his chest. He’s gently lifted off of Legolas’ lap, picked up so that Legolas’ cock flops out of him, dragging seed with it. Then he’s set aside on the mattress, next to Legolas’ sweaty body, and the arm leaves him. His ass feels sore but manageably so. He looks at Thranduil, who moved him, and feels even more honoured; he never though his king would touch him.

Thranduil’s face is unusually kind, and his pure eyes connect with Meludir’s. He asks quietly, “How was it?”

It was _amazing_. Meludir is still a wreck from it, and he imagines it’ll be his favourite fantasy for hundreds of years to come. His only regret is that he’ll never experience it again, not with his handsome prince.

And that gives him pause. He’s becomes horribly aware that there is a _chance_ he could have another. He knows that this was a mere training exercise for Legolas, and that, if Legolas were thought excellent, there would be no more need for such things and he would move on to his choice of worthy elves. But if he needed more practice...

Meludir bites his lip. His eyebrows knit together. He _loves_ his lords, he does. He doesn’t want to lie, but it was just _so good_. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. 

Legolas is looking at him. Blushing, Meludir looks away, ashamed of his own mind. The king sighs. 

He asks, “Why are you hesitating, Meludir?”

Meludir covers his face with his hands. He can’t look at either of them. He can feel the prince’s seed slowly trickling out of his stretched channel, and he feels dirty and vulgar but he _wants more._

He mumbles, voice strained with self-hatred, “I... I don’t want to insult the prince...”

The room is silent. It’s several seconds before Meludir can bear to lower his hands. When he looks at Thranduil, he finds bitter puzzlement across Thranduil’s fair features. 

Then Thranduil turns to observe Legolas. It’s clear that he doesn’t understand. Legolas, oddly enough, doesn’t look particularly surprised. But he averts his eyes from his father’s gaze. Thranduil orders, “Leave.”

Meludir is ready to obey, but Legolas is the one that slips off the bed. He scoops up his clothes and changes quickly, efficiently. Meludir watches him go with a heavy heart.

He leaves, and Thranduil and Meludir are alone in the room. Thranduil’s hand slithers under Meludir’s chin, tilting it up and shifting to cup his cheek, forcing Meludir to look at his king. He can’t help but entertain the wild notion of Thranduil _taking him_ , but Thranduil murmurs, “You are too young. I will send another to take care of you.”

Meludir’s confused but bows his head in acceptance. Thranduil climbs off the bed and strolls elegantly for the door, disappearing after his son. 

Meludir’s left by himself on the plush bed, his clothes strewn across the floor and his chest still heaving. He needs the first few minutes to steady himself. 

Then he dips a hand between his legs. Driven by some bizarre impulse, he takes a scoop of Legolas’ seed onto his finger. It’s still leaking out of him, drizzling down his thighs: an ample load, worthy of a royal. He lifts his hand to his mouth and sticks out his tongue, tasting his prince’s release. 

It’s bitter but not entirely unpleasant. He licks off the rest, simply because it came from _Legolas’ cock_. 

Sighing happily, Meludir stretches out along the bed, dropping against the soft mattress and nestling his head into the pillows. He doesn’t know if he should leave or not, but as he was given no instruction, he airs on the side of inaction. He’ll just have to wait until he’s ‘taken care of.’

In the meantime, he snuggles into the pillows, daydreaming of Legolas’ heady scent, and wishing he could have more.


	4. Thranduil

He dispenses with his robes on his own. Legolas is skilled enough in that, at least, he’s sure—he wouldn’t need Meludir’s breathy smile to see it. He lets it all fall from his body and places his crown on the table by the bed, his long hair the only thing obscuring his supple frame. He thinks of preparing himself as well, but this will mean nothing if he does all the work himself. He climbs onto the bed as he is, settling back among the plush sheets and pillows. He arranges himself as gracefully as he can, even though he isn’t the one on trial. By the time the doors open, Thranduil is lounging in the bed like it’s his newest throne. 

Legolas steps through the doors. His eyes immediately widen, and there’s a pause where he seems to be frozen in place, breath caught and cheeks flushing. Then he hurriedly shuts the door behind himself, though no one would dare interrupt them. 

He walks around the side of the bed, asking, shocked and uncomprehending, “Ada...?”

Thranduil doesn’t understand, either. His eyes sweep over his handsome son, so dreadfully beautiful, clever and elegant, still so young and sweet. Legolas listens to instructions well, and his technique has improved with each lesson. Each viewing was so wholly erotic that Thranduil, only observing, had to relieve himself afterwards, though in the case of Meludir, he sought out Galion instead; he couldn’t bring himself to take an elf younger than his son. Yet the rounds themselves were reported unsatisfying each time, and Thranduil simply doesn’t see what his son could be doing so wrong. 

It leaves him only one choice. He would never consider it, whatever his own desires, if it weren’t for Legolas’ wishes. Legolas is old enough to make his own decisions, and Thranduil hasn’t missed the way his adoring son looks at him or the lust put behind his name. 

He explains, casually as he can, “No one else is coming tonight.” Hurt flickers across Legolas’ face before being hurriedly stamped down; he always tries to emulate his father’s smooth veneer. Thranduil gently elucidates, “This is not a punishment. It simply seems unwise to continue as we were, when mere servants do not possess the courage to critique. Clearly, I must determine for myself what you are doing wrong.”

Legolas’ lips part. Shock paints him, unable to be hidden. Thranduil clarifies, blunt and unmistakable, “I am submitting myself to you for tonight, Legolas.”

Legolas’ eyes fall closed. He takes a steadying breath, and when he opens them again, he can’t seem to stop himself from looking down Thranduil’s body. He observes the arch of exposed, creamy skin, and after a moment of this, he murmurs, “Ada...”

Lifting an eyebrow, Thranduil asks, “Will this be acceptable?”

Legolas’ eyes return to Thranduil, and he instantly says, “ _Yes._ ” Thranduil expected no other answer. But Legolas’ face crumbles again, and he looks away, stumbling to add, “But... that is not fair to you. Clearly, I am no good...”

“Legolas,” Thranduil hushes, his voice softened the way it does only when they’re alone. “Sit.”

Legolas does so. He perches shallowly on the side of the bed, first eyeing the far wall and then his own feet. His hands clasp together in his lap, clearly trying not to fidget. Thranduil rises to sit and crawls to Legolas’ back. 

He carefully gathers all the white-gold strands of Legolas’ hair, so very like his father’s. Drawing them back over his shoulders, Thranduil reaches around Legolas’ front. His head hooks over his son’s shoulder, mouth just at Legolas’ pointed ear, and he begins to deftly unfasten the neckline of Legolas’ robes. Legolas doesn’t fight him. He quietly soothes, “You are young and inexperienced, my leaf. You have nothing to be ashamed of. ...Perhaps it was a flaw in my own teaching...”

“No,” Legolas interjects. His voice is tinged with a husky note, his body arching forward into Thranduil’s hands as the robes are parted down his front. “It cannot have been, because I... I _enjoyed_ myself each time...”

Thranduil wants to chuckle. He’s pleased for that, at least. The robes fall loose, pooling in Legolas’ lap to expose his flawless torso, and Thranduil lets one hand play over it while the other curls softly around Legolas’ cheek. Thranduil turns Legolas’ face to him, connecting their eyes while he promises, “However stoic I appear for my kingdom, you must know that I love my little leaf dearly. There is nothing you can do to truly disappoint me.” Legolas doesn’t look so sure, but he still glows from the words all the same. It isn’t often that Thranduil voices his love. He only does so now because he can see that Legolas needs it. He’s hurt his son with these lessons, though he never imagined it would be so, and he intends to heal those wounds tonight. 

He dips his voice deeper to purr, “Do not worry about satisfying me. I mean to examine you, but no matter how you perform tonight, I will take pleasure in joining with my son.” He means it. He presses a firm, lingering kiss to Legolas’ cheek, and he feels Legolas shuddering against him, leaning closer. 

When he pulls back, Legolas breathes, “You are good to me, Ada.” Thranduil dons a lazy grin. He’s hardly a model parent. He knows he’s been distant in the past and remains too harsh, too isolated. But that falls away when his son has need of true him, and he pulls Legolas flush against him in a sensual facsimile of a hug. Turning to hold their faces together, Legolas tentatively suggests, “Perhaps I should ride you instead...”

Thranduil’s grin grows. A more than tempting notion. But he says, “Another time, perhaps.” Excitement lights Legolas’ face at the promise of _more_. “For now, I mean to evaluate you, and that requires you to take me as you would a lesser elf at your mercy...” Sex is not always about such power games, but the way Thranduil says the words seems to send a shiver down Legolas’ spine, and Thranduil enjoys that subtle thrill. There will be very few occasions in Legolas’ life where he’ll find his father submissive to his attentions, and it’s clear that he means to savour this one. 

He’s ready, Thranduil thinks. Pulling away, Thranduil lounges back again, the only difference being that he spreads his legs to make room for Legolas between them. 

Legolas doesn’t move at first. He looks over his shoulder, eyeing his father’s lean lines, but he takes a lingering account of the view before he rises. He shuffles out of what’s left of his robes, until he’s as bare as his father, sporting much the same shape, but slightly smaller with less-defined muscles and hair a tad shorter, the tip of it tied back in braids behind his ears. His eyebrows are lighter, his face less sharp, and he’s _prettier_ , though Thranduil considers them both the height of beauty in his kingdom. No matter how far and wide Legolas should search, he’ll never find a partner as worthy of him as the man that made him. 

He looks like he agrees. He stares at Thranduil in reverence, even as he crawls forward to settle between Thranduil’s spread legs. His first touch is hesitant, his fingertips coming down to gently caress the meat of Thranduil’s inner thighs. At first, Thranduil wonders if this is it: uncertainty as his downfall. But he didn’t show such awe with Feren or Meludir, and once he’s determined that he’s allowed to caress his father’s flesh, his touches seem expert. He turns his hands to run his knuckles lightly down between Thranduil’s legs, up into the cleft of his crotch, where they spider out, thumbs brushing through the golden curls. Legolas runs his smooth hands all the way up Thranduil’s taut stomach, over the chiseled lines of muscles and across his broad abdomen, along his sleek shoulders. Legolas murmurs, sincerity deep in his eyes, “You are very beautiful, Ada.”

Thranduil lets a smirk twist his lips, but he doesn’t return the compliment. He’s observing now. He keeps his arms limp in the sheets while Legolas runs down them, having to bend lower over Thranduil’s body to reach all the way to his wrists. There, Legolas slips his fingers between his father’s, entwining them, now so low that their cocks brush together, both appropriately hard. Legolas has a hitch of breath that ghosts over Thranduil’s cheek. Tightening their hands together, Legolas brushes his lips over Thranduil’s, light and a little moist and tantalizing: he pulls back before anything more can happen. Then he slips his fingers out of his father’s grasp, dancing back along Thranduil’s arms to cup Thranduil’s face, tilt him up and bring their lips back together. This one’s still tender, but Legolas deepens it by drawing his tongue along Thranduil’s seam, until Thranduil opens to allow his son entrance. 

Legolas’ tongue swims easily into his mouth, looping once around his teeth and then swirling to the middle, catching his own tongue and drawing it out, wrapping tight along it and laving at his walls, his roof, forcing him to participate, needing to keep up. Legolas tilts their faces to the perfect angle so that their noses are side by side, and Legolas breathes effortlessly, needing no pause in the steady stream of kisses that he presses to Thranduil’s mouth. He’s unhurried but poignant. If Thranduil didn’t know better, he’d think Legolas had spent centuries practicing on all the elves of their kingdom. 

By the time Legolas parts their lips, Thranduil’s breath and pulse have quickened, and he’s hungry for _more_. He has to hold himself back from reconnecting them; he means to let Legolas take all the leads. Yet he can’t stop himself from asking, “Have you been practicing?”

Legolas lightly shakes his head, looking puzzled and assuring, “I have had none that you have not seen since our lessons.” Thranduil’s brows furrow, and Legolas asks, weaker, “Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” Thranduil quickly insists. “In fact, it seems you are very skilled with your mouth.” Pride dances over Legolas’ face, and Thranduil sees no reason to restrain it. Clearly, whatever Feren and Meludir’s complaints were, they weren’t with the talent of Legolas’ tongue. He takes after his father that way. 

He gives his father a quicker kiss, and then he lets his hands slip back down Thranduil’s neck and shoulders, flowing along his chest. With a little push, Legolas rises back up, his knees shifting to tuck below Thranduil’s thighs and forcing his legs into the air. Legolas’ eyes fall to their two cocks, nestled affectionately along side one another, and Thranduil has to resist the childish urge to knock them together. Legolas continues to eye them, even as he brings his hand to his mouth. He pushes two fingers between his lips, drawing them in to suck, and it makes Thranduil wish he were seeing something else stretching Legolas’ jaw open. Another time, perhaps. They will have to try so many other things. 

Even if he doesn’t mean to, Legolas makes a show of wetting his fingers. His eyes are half-lidded, downcast to eye his father’s body, his cheeks flushed and his lips glistening with spit as he fucks his pert mouth, his plush lips opening wide when he slips his fingers loose. His tongue follows them, laving up the side. Then he lowers that hand, down between Thranduil’s legs, and Thranduil feels the cool fingers rub between the cheeks of his ass. 

His son finds his hole easily. It’s rubbed over, circled once, and Legolas bids quietly, “Open for me, Ada.”

Thranduil wasn’t expecting such an order. He finds it nonetheless erotic, and he wills himself to obey. His body is easy to relax; he trusts his son implicitly. Legolas bites his bottom lip when he pushes one finger inside, and Thranduil has to suppress a gasp. Legolas’ lean finger slides smoothly in, rubbing as it goes, coaxing Thranduil’s pliant walls to give him entrance. When Legolas is buried to the knuckle, he drags his finger in a slow circle, as though mapping and _feeling_ Thranduil’s insides more than preparing him for siege. 

Drawing the digit carefully back, Legolas begins to press slowly in and out, working Thranduil to a wider opening. This, too, is quite skillful, and again Thranduil finds himself puzzled—surely, Legolas’ preparation isn’t lacking. It feels quite as exquisite as his kiss did, and Thranduil imagines that if he’d taught his son to merely finger subjects to their release, he would manage just fine.

As Legolas withdraws to add a second finger, he lowers down, sliding back along the bed until he has room to bend nearly in two. He presses his face down into Thranduil’s crotch, lying atop Thranduil’s hip and nuzzling into the side of Thranduil’s engorged cock. Thranduil has to bite back a mewl of pleasure. “You are so very handsome,” Legolas nearly moans, “And you have such an impressive cock...” He breaks off in a needy noise, his eyes falling closed as he presses his face against it, using his spare hand to press the erect shaft against his cheek. He looks like he wants to devour it, impale his throat and fuck his mouth raw, but Thranduil has already ordered him to other things. 

Thranduil wants to comment on how it’s _the cock that made him_ , but that seems too lewd, even for this. Instead, Thranduil simply answers, “I am pleased you think so.” Legolas smiles, too sweetly for a man with a cock pressed against his face. 

He kisses it before he straightens back out, his fingers having done their work. Thranduil regrets the emptiness that follows, though he knows it won’t last long. Legolas grips himself, lining up, tilting his head in concentration as he does so. Once Thranduil can feel the press of the rounded tip, Legolas leans down over him, held up on one elbow tucked at Thranduil’s side, hair cascading down to tickle Thranduil’s breast. 

With his eyes locked on his father’s, Legolas pushes inside. As soon as the head embeds itself in Thranduil’s channel, he hisses, his hand leaping to his mouth. Legolas prepared him well and there is no pain, but the sensation of being _filled_ is made all the more powerful by the eyes of his beloved son bearing down into him. Legolas glides smoothly inside, more and more, Thranduil’s walls dilating wider to accommodate him. By the time Legolas is fully seated, Thranduil needs a moment just to adjust. 

He doesn’t mean to give instruction. He wanted this to be _Legolas’_ show, yet he can’t help himself from muttering, “Kiss me.”

Legolas obeys. He brings their mouths together, his hips grinding deeper, flattening into Thranduil so that his hard cock slips along Legolas’ stomach. He can feel the hot pulse of it, the hefty length and girth, stimulating him with each tiny movement. Legolas squirms atop him, rolling at different directions while his tongue runs over and between Thranduil’s lips, until he brushes across the bundle of nerves that has Thranduil gasping into his son’s mouth. Legolas pushes at it again, as though making sure, and Thranduil’s grunt of pleasure is stolen away. 

Legolas lays himself atop his father’s body. He holds much of his weight with his elbow, but the rest is Thranduil’s to bear. Legolas wraps his fingers around Thranduil’s chin, caressing his face as they kiss, then slipping back into his hair, massaging him, and soon Legolas’ hips are rocking farther and farther away, until he’s slipping almost fully out and driving back inside, smooth and proficient and at just the perfect angle every time. Thranduil is given pleasure on every thrust. His mouth is driven by their connection, tender and sweet, though the slap of their hips is raunchy and wanton. When Legolas moves his mouth away, Thranduil doesn’t want him to go. 

Thranduil tries to follow him, but Legolas splays a hand over Thranduil’s chest and shoves him lightly back down. Shocked but aroused, Thranduil lies where is, watching Legolas straighten up to his full height, tossing his hair back over his shoulder. His hands run down to Thranduil’s hips, stroking and squeezing, until he reaches Thranduil’s cock. 

There, his thrusts suddenly redouble. He locks his hands around Thranduil’s cock, while his hips slam hard and fast into Thranduil’s rear, cock pounding him down into the bed, nearly driving him up against the headboard. With all his fingers and thumbs, Legolas strokes and kneads and pumps Thranduil’s strong cock, gaze lowered to observe each little movement, mouth handing open like he wants Thranduil inside it. He looks powerfully erotic, but the feeling is even better than the show. Legolas’ thrusts are expert. Even and relentless, they fill Thranduil again and again, and when Legolas drops one hand to trace Thranduil’s thighs, Thranduil can’t stop a growl from slithering out of his throat. 

He doesn’t understand. There are no special tricks and no interruptions, no instructions, but there is no need for any; Thranduil is at the brink of _pleasure_ in every moment. The kissing was excellent, the preparation was pleasing, the fucking itself is a delicious height. It’s utterly wonderful. His son is an excellent lover, and surely no elf alive could wish for any better. 

And it hits him, suddenly and inescapably, that there’s only one explanation. He knows what must’ve happened, because there’s nothing else that could’ve been. Comprehension crosses his face, and he looks up at his flushed son, still taking the hard pounding to his ass. He’s about to snarl the accusations when Legolas dips forward again, body arching sensually to squirm along his father’s, their mouths falling back together. 

Thranduil lets himself be filled with tongue, lets his bottom lip be nipped and dragged as Legolas laps at the side of his mouth. He doesn’t have the will to cut it short; the sensations are simply too luxurious. He waits until Legolas parts them again, fingers stroking lovingly across Thranduil’s cheek. 

Legolas ducks again, clearly about to go in for another kiss, but Thranduil quickly knots a fist in his hair, holding him at bay. Legolas gasps in pain, his hips stuttering in surprise but quickly returning to their duty. Overwhelmed, Thranduil takes a moment to breathe, to marinate in the steady fill of his son’s ample cock, before he hisses, “They lied to us.”

Legolas, panting lightly with exertion, knits his pretty eyebrows together and asks, “What?” He looks confused, but he doesn’t stop. 

“They have lied,” Thranduil repeats, “when they said you were lacking. You are _excellent_ , my son, and those fools must have wanted to necessitate further lessons with which they could have you.” Legolas’ eyes widen, his hips slowing, until Thranduil reaches down to squeeze his ass and insists, “Continue; I need no excuse to bed you, and I will enjoy you to the fullest.”

Legolas doesn’t look like he believes it. But he behaves for his father, returning to his swift pace, filling Thranduil’s tight hole and slipping out again, repeating the hard thrusts over and over. Thranduil wipes some of the sweat-slicked hair away from Legolas’ forehead and assures him, commanding like an order, “You are talented, Legolas. One of the best I have ever had, and I have been alive longer than you can imagine.” Legolas shudders, but it’s the truth. There have been many times when Thranduil’s found sex downright _boring_ , but his coupling with Legolas bristles with fire, a passionate connection and a sense of _adoration_. Legolas seems perfectly in tune with his body, pleasing him and stimulating him without even trying; he will be one of the greatest in Middle Earth once he’s had more practice and learned the ins and outs of his father’s form. Thranduil enjoys every moment of it, only made better by the relief that swarms Legolas’ handsome features.

He shakes his head and moans, “I _love you_ , Ada,” before dipping forward to burrow into Thranduil’s neck. His palms smooth flat over Thranduil’s chest, their bodies flush together, Thranduil’s cock pulsing hot between them. Still, Legolas’ hips roll on, until he’s crying a broken, “ _Ada_ ,” into his father’s neck, his cock bursting inside Thranduil’s body. 

The flood of it is exquisite. Legolas’ hips go wild, abandoning their smooth rolling for insane thrusts, stabbing almost violently inside and forcing Thranduil to tremble in delight. He’s filled with his son’s seed, can feel it bubbling up and leaking out around his sides, quite as thick and heavy as Thranduil’s own loads. Legolas continues to hump him through it, until every last drop is spent, and he slumps, whimpering pathetically, against his father’s body.

For a long moment, Legolas rests there. His body seems to be burning, his skin slick and hot everywhere that Thranduil’s touching him. His breathing is ragged, heavy. Thranduil lets him lie there. 

Eventually, he sits up on trembling hands and knees. His pulls his hips away, his cock sliding out of Thranduil’s hole with a wet pop and the squelch of liquid. Thranduil hisses, immediately empty.

He finds Legolas frowning, and Legolas murmurs, sounding miserable again, “I did not make you come, either.”

Thranduil snorts. It puts confusion on Legolas’ face, but Thranduil can’t help himself. He pushes up, lounging in the pillows and leaning back against the headboard, his thighs dragging a stain of seed across the sheets. He extends a hand, taking hold of one of Legolas’ frail wrists, and as he draws his son closer, he purrs, “That is only because I am very old and very experienced. I have been known to take my partners many times, forcing them to spill themselves at least twice before I am done.” He pulls Legolas over him, straddling his lap, the weight and warmth of Legolas’ plush thighs a pleasant addition. With one arm looping around Legolas’ waist, he draws Legolas forward, the other hand cupping Legolas’ face to promise, “I assure you, my darling boy, that you were _excellent_. There is no elf alive that would truly think ill of you, especially in this regard.”

Legolas looks dizzy and terribly happy. He mewls a quiet, “Ada,” and nuzzles forward into Thranduil’s face, kissing Thranduil’s chin and holding on to his neck and shoulders. Thranduil holds Legolas close with one hand and uses the other to reach between them, down below his own cock. There’s an ample amount of still-warm seed to scoop onto his fingers, which he brings between the cheeks of Legolas’ plush rump. The satiated lust on Legolas’ face gives way to wonderment, and Thranduil kisses him to answer any questions. 

It’s easy to push one finger into Legolas’ hole. His body is spent and lax, and it takes Thranduil’s ministrations with no protest. Legolas accepts the touches with a languid keening noise, ducking forward to snuggle against his father. He spends so much time trying to be strong, tough, rigid and unreachable, but before his father, he melts back into the carefree youth he is when he isn’t trying to be a miniature Thranduil. He’s a complicated creature, one more than worthy of a king’s attentions, son or otherwise. He wraps his shapely arms around his father’s neck, whining beautifully when Thranduil begins to scissor him open on two digits. 

When Thranduil deems Legolas ready, he withdraws and picks his son up by the hips. Legolas pulls back to look down between them, trying to help and steady himself. He murmurs hazily, “You will be my first...”

“I will be your first,” Thranduil repeats, having wanted it all along. For all Feren and Meludir’s missteps, at least they lead to this point. Thranduil brings Legolas down, pushing him onto his father’s cock, and the first, shallow thrust inside is everything he imagined: wondrous enough to make him gasp, Legolas clenching instantly and moaning, arching his body and tossing back his head. He squirms in Thranduil’s grip, as though dying to sink to the base, but Thranduil forces the process to be slow, always careful with his beloved child. He fills Legolas in eager, tiny thrusts, and he snarls on the way, “I will have Feren and Meludir whipped for hurting you.”

Legolas shakes his head. It makes his hair dance, but he seems to take a minute to be able to speak. Thranduil finally gets to the base, fully sheathed inside his son, and Legolas buckles forward, groaning and shuddering around it. His cock is filling again, poking into Thranduil’s stomach. Thranduil gives him that first moment to breathe, and then Legolas murmurs, “No, please... I... they still pleased me.”

Thranduil sighs. Legolas is too kind for his own good. But he’s young, and not yet jaded by the evils of the world. Wanting to keep him that way, Thranduil muses, “I suppose their behaviour was... understandable. But they will certainly be punished.” Donning a sudden smirk, Thranduil suggests, “Time in the dungeon seems such a boring prospect for this crime. Perhaps they will be made to serve with toys inside them and their cocks tied. A fitting punishment, no?” A tremor runs through Legolas’ body, his eyes closing. He must be picturing the vision. 

But he only licks his lips and murmurs, “I do not wish to think of them right now.” His eyes flutter open, pupils blown so wide that they nearly devour all the icy blue around them. “They were enjoyable enough, but it was _you_ I wished for every time, Ada. You are the man I was meant for, and if I were never given to anyone but you again, I would be happy.”

Thranduil’s grin is unstoppable. That wouldn’t be ideal, having only one lover, in as long as they will live. But he can’t bring himself to crush that vision, not right now, and he only pulls Legolas forward for another kiss. The first time he jostles Legolas up, their lips are sealed too tightly for Legolas’ gasp to get away. 

On the next, they’re parted enough for Legolas to cry out. Thranduil thrusts hard up into him, and it drives Legolas up high enough to slam back down, until he lifts himself up on trembling thighs and tries to join in. He bounces greedily up and down in his father’s lap, clinging onto Thranduil’s shoulders and kissing when he can. Thranduil returns the favour. He fills Legolas again and again, quite as brutally as Legolas filled him, only now he’s had both ends pleasured and can feel his own end on the horizon. He’s had lovers he’s fucked for hours, but that was always just for _sex_ , and this is _love_ , and this first time, he wants Legolas too badly to resist. He pounds into Legolas with a wild hunger whilst devouring his mouth. 

It’s when Thranduil purrs, “You make me very proud,” that Legolas comes a second time. He _screams_ , gripping so tightly onto Thranduil’s shoulders that the finger marks should still be there in the morning. Not to quiet him but simply to _taste_ him, Thranduil latches onto Legolas’ mouth, kissing him for that final ride. Legolas’ walls clenching erratically around him is what draws out Thranduil’s own orgasm, and it hits him full force, the pleasure surging into every last part of him. It’s a delicious, heady build that leaves him breathless against his son’s body, his world narrowing down just to _Legolas_. Filling Legolas with his seed is one of the best moments of his life.

Even when they’ve both finished, Legolas continues to writhe on him. Rocking fluidly in place, Legolas whimpers, milking out both of their releases. By the time he finally stops, Thranduil’s head has come back down, though the weightlessness and sense of satiation stay. He lifts Legolas off his flagging cock, only to have Legolas settle down beside him in the pillows. 

“You are good in whatever position you take,” Thranduil chuckles, fondly stroking the back of Legolas’ head. Legolas croons and leans into the petting, looking blissfully relieved and happy. 

For a long time, they stay there, crumpled against the headboard, until Thranduil sighs and brings them both down, lying properly across the soft mattress. 

Thranduil is the one to break the quiet, announcing, “I have not had an orgasm like that in a very long time.” Legolas’ cheeks turn fully pink, but he appears just as proud as he should be. 

He asks, eagerness only barely restrained, “Will you take me again?”

“Not tonight,” Thranduil laughs, “but on others.”

Legolas’ smile stretches across his face. He’s dazzling when he’s happy, and it’s been too long since Thranduil’s seen such a look on his son’s fair features. It’s been too long since he’s embraced Legolas this way. 

Now Legolas snuggles into his arms, tight against him, all the barriers between them broken down. Legolas leans his head on Thranduil’s chest, and Thranduil lazily pets through his hair, kissing his forehead and murmuring, “Sleep now, my little leaf. You have earned it.” Legolas sighs pleasantly. His entire body is relaxed: utterly peaceful. 

Thranduil holds him until he drifts to sleep, wondering what new things to teach him in the morning.


End file.
